


The Deepest Wound

by randi2204



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:10:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randi2204/pseuds/randi2204
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir happens to glimpse his brother dallying with someone... and is completely unprepared for his own jealousy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deepest Wound

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to Professor Tolkien, his estate and heirs. Not for profit, only entertainment.
> 
> Warnings: Many and varied, including: het, slashy incestuous thoughts and a brimming cup of angst.

The wind was bitterly cold.  It whipped across the courtyard, made the dead branches of the White Tree shiver and creak, moaning as it did so, and quickly tangled Boromir’s hair into knots.  It went right through his thick tunic—he had forgotten his cloak—but he did not feel the chill.

 

He leaned forward, resting his hands against the crenellations that defined the edge of the roof of the Steward’s house, hoping that no one would think to look for him here.

 

 _Of course,_ came the unbidden thought, _the only one who’s likely to know I’m here is the one I’m hiding from . . ._

 

Hiding.  A tremor ran through him, but not from the frigid air.  He shook his head, staring out over the courtyard, pressing his hands firmly against solid stone.

 

A fine thing, he thought with no small bitterness.  A Captain of Gondor hiding from his little brother as if in terror.

 

Skittish as an unbroken colt, he shied away from the idea; in fact, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to think about Faramir.

 

Thinking about him made a strange, unreasoning . . . anger roil in his stomach.  And he could not fathom why.

 

But it probably has something to do with that girl . . .

 

With a groan that was swallowed by the wind, Boromir dropped his head until he was staring down at the stone beneath his hands.  It seemed he could not stop thinking of Faramir after all.

 

Or rather, he could not stop thinking of the sight of Faramir and her . . .

 

She was a typical maid, slightly plump, as kitchen maids were wont to be, with dark hair and sparkling eyes and a ready laugh.  Vaguely familiar, this one, but then, they all were—he had probably seen her in the corridors, in the dining hall, in the kitchen when he cut through on his way out.

 

Some of them he’d seen wherever he could steal a private moment alone with them; in the stable or down some long abandoned stretch of hall . . . or even in his bed.  So he might well have seen her there, too.

 

It had been a shock to see her in _his brother’s_ bed.

 

Their skin contrasted, hers roses and cream, his more bronzed, paler gold where the sun rarely touched him.

 

Boromir closed his eyes, trying to force away the images as they played out in his mind, and clenched his hands into fists, his knuckles scraping raw against the rain-pocked stones.

 

He was trapped; he could not run from his own memories.  He could not pretend that he had not seen.

 

 _Voluptuous thighs wrapped around lean hips, soft curves against firm muscle._

 

He had, perhaps, been too eager to see Faramir.  But he always was, after being separated from him for weeks and often months at a time.  His duties, and those that Faramir had started to assume after reaching his majority a few years ago, kept them apart more and more.  A desperate little voice in the back of Boromir’s head whispered to him that their childhood closeness was disappearing, that it slipped further away as each day passed.

 

He wanted it back.  And thus it was that he’d sought out his brother to cajole him into breaking his fast with him, to help him stave off that feeling of _loss_.

 

He’d noticed as he approached Faramir’s chamber that the door was slightly ajar, and grinned, thinking to sneak up on him and surprise him.  But then, as he’d put his hand on the door to ease it open further, to slip inside, he’d heard them.

 

The rustle of the straw mattress, the quiet moans and throaty whispers in two registers, one feminine, one . . .

 

And, his heart suddenly hammering loudly against his ribs, he peered through the crack of the door.

 

 _Their breaths mingled, stolen by sharp kisses, echoing in shallow gasps._

 

Then he had not been able to look away.  Everything felt distant—the rasp of his breath in his throat, the tightness of his chest, _the way Faramir touched her, held her_. . .

 

That was when he noticed it, the burning rage—no, not rage, not anger, but something _like_ anger, something strong and hot and mindless.  It leapt up inside of him, fiercer than flame, and at the same time, somehow, it chilled him, left him with nothing but icy doubt and an unbearably _hollow_ feeling.

 

 _She bucked against him, keening.  He plowed into her, each stroke less controlled than the one before._

 

He had not moved, had barely drawn breath since he’d looked in, but then Faramir lifted his head, coppery curls waving.  Somehow, his passion-glazed eyes found the door, and seemed to meet Boromir’s unerringly.

 

As if he’d known . . .

 

 _Had he?_

 

The wind was knife-cold against the bare skin of his cheek, and his hands stung.  The pain drew him from his thoughts a little space.  Opening his eyes, Boromir discovered that he’d scoured his knuckles bloody against the rough stone.  He watched dully as the scrapes turned red, the blood welling slowly up, but it did not overflow.

 

It was back, that _not-anger_ he’d felt on seeing Faramir with the girl.  It filled him, and his thoughts were consumed with what he’d seen, what he wished he’d never seen.  He cursed roundly, and the abused skin of his fingers protested when he clenched his fists.

 

It only fanned that fire, only made him colder and more alone.  _What would it take,_ he wondered almost desperately, _to draw her eyes to someone else? Someone other than Faramir?_

 

The very idea surprised him, and he realized that the uncontrollable emotion that flooded him was simple jealousy.

 

After a stunned moment, Boromir scoffed at his own foolishness.  _Jealous over a kitchen maid . . ._ His smile faded somewhat.  _Jealous over . . ._

 

But the thought of her with another man stirred nothing in him.  It wasn’t the kitchen wench—any man could have her, as far as he was concerned, and indeed, may have done.

 

But Faramir could not.  Or rather, the maid could not have Faramir.

 

 _For Faramir is . . ._

 

Suddenly horrified by the direction his thoughts were taking, Boromir stopped, his breath coming fast.  _Surely . . . I cannot . . ._

 

 _I cannot be jealous over my own brother?_

 

And as quickly as that, it made frightening sense.  He wanted Faramir to look to no other, to _desire_ no other but him, and shame writhed inside him.

 

 _Faramir is_ mine.

 

He considered for a moment that it might just be that he was no longer the recipient of his brother’s adulation, now that he was grown and his horizons broadened . . . but the jealousy surged up in response, filling his throat.

 

“No,” he groaned, and closed his eyes.  “No, it must not be . . .”

 

 _I cannot_ want _him . . . we are both men, we are_ brothers!

 

But, even though he knew it was wrong, that it was perversion, a crime in the eyes of Men and the Valar, once he had recognized it, he could not deny it was true.

 

To admit it shocked him to his core—and made an unfamiliar heat creep over him, despite the chill of the wind.

 

He _loved_ his brother, and far more than was brotherly; he longed to touch him, to hold him, even to . . . lie with him.

 

 _Oh, why could it not have been someone else? Why my brother?_

 

But he knew he would have loved Faramir no matter what their relation was; he could no more stop loving Faramir than he could stop Anduin from flowing to the sea.

 

Behind him, he heard the door to the roof open and close.  He straightened away from the crenellation, but did not turn.  He knew who it was, who it had to be.

 

Faramir had found him at last.

 

He could not pretend that nothing was wrong—but perhaps he could convince Faramir that it was merely amazement at how he’d matured.  Perhaps he could keep his sordid secret to himself, and not lose what he _did_ have of his brother’s love.  As quick as the span between one heartbeat and the next, he made his decision.

 

Then his heavy cloak was draped over his shoulders, still carrying some heat from inside the hall _or from being held against Faramir’s body_. . .

 

He thrust the thought aside, even as he pulled the fur-lined garment about himself gratefully.  Wrapped in its warming folds, he finally started to shiver.  His voice was steady, though, as he asked, “How did you know?”

 

There was only silence.  He could sense that his brother was behind him, but Faramir’s hands had not lingered on his shoulders once he’d clasped the cloak, and he could not tell how far away he had moved.  It filled him with a strange feeling, this one aching sharply inside him.

 

It was a day for strange feelings, it seemed.

 

Finally Faramir spoke.  “Where else would you go when you are troubled?” he countered quietly.

 

Boromir turned to face him, his brows drawn close.  “You know what I mean.” 

 

Looking down at his boots, Faramir replied, “I . . . just always know when you’re near.  Your emotions reach out to me.”  He glanced up and then away again too quickly for Boromir to catch more than a glimpse of his expressive blue eyes. 

 

But what he read was enough, and he shriveled inside at the knowledge that his dishonor, his _stain_ was so visible.  The words simply burst out of him, before he even knew he was going to speak.  “How long have you known what I did not?  That I . . .” He stopped short, unable to confess to Faramir what he could scarcely admit to himself.

 

Even though it seemed that his brother already knew.

 

But he was sure that if he said the words, if he told the secret that he had newly discovered, Faramir would despise him, would turn away, disgusted by the unnatural way he felt.  And he knew he could not stand that.

 

Yet it seemed impossible that he did _not_ know already.  And still he stood, within arms’ reach, as if nothing had changed.  Those blue eyes that could not dissemble were clear, now looking at him directly, and they held no hint of any loathing.

 

“I . . . I didn’t.”  The wind nearly carried Faramir’s words away.  “Not for certain . . . but I always . . .” He trailed off.

 

Boromir jerked as if the words were a blow.  “Always . . . what?”

 

 _Could he have known what I had never considered before today?_

 

“I . . . thought.” Faramir’s cheeks were reddening, and Boromir was certain that it was not from the cutting wind.  “I hoped.  And I knew how _I_ felt.”  He brushed a tendril of wind-borne hair away from his mouth.  At that moment, Faramir looked less the capable ranger captain that Boromir knew him to be, and more the uncertain youth he had been scant years ago.  He wanted to reach out, to enfold his younger brother in his arms, as he used to when Faramir was so troubled.

 

But he could not move, shocked into stillness by Faramir’s words.

 

Then the indecision dropped away, and despite his sparse beard and the lingering innocence in his eyes, Boromir knew that his brother was a man.  His eyes met Boromir’s almost defiantly.  “Could your feelings differ so much from my own?  I hoped not.  You’ve shown me nothing but love and caring . . . and I wanted to read more into that than I should.  I wanted to think that . . . that you felt the same way.

 

“But I never _knew_.

 

“Then I saw you at the door, watching us . . . and it was all in your face, in your eyes.”  He swallowed.  “And it pained me, to know that I had caused you such hurt.” 

 

 _Faramir feels the same?_ It was the only thought that Boromir could catch, for they ran at a furious rate through his head.  _He has always felt this way?_

 

A tremendous wave of _relief_ swept over him, and he grinned, buoyed by its very strength.  He would not lose his brother.  They would be separated, by duty and by circumstance, but they would still be bound, brothers and . . . more.  Lovers.

 

“It is forgotten now,” he said, still wearing that broad easy smile.  “All is in the past.” He took a step forward, one hand outstretched to brush against Faramir’s cheek . . .

 

. . . and Faramir ducked away.

 

Boromir stopped, eyes wide in surprise, his hand motionless in the air.  “Faramir?”

 

His brother would not meet his gaze.  He had turned his face away, and Boromir could see his eyes were closed.  “No.”  If he had not seen his lips shape the word, he knew he would not have heard it.

 

Then the heat that had been curling in his belly turned to ice, and he dropped his arm like the leaden weight it had become.  “No?”

 

Faramir looked at him then, startled, perhaps, by the quaver in that one word that he could not control.  “No.  We cannot . . .” He took a deep breath.  “We cannot take that step.” His eyes and voice were steady, but Boromir could not mistake the pain in them; it twisted in his gut as his own.  “As dearly as I would love to give in to everything I’ve dreamed of and share myself with you . . . we cannot.”

 

“What do you mean?” he demanded, and winced at his rough tone.  To have his one longing made clear, to have it be _shared_ , and then to have it ripped away . . . it was too much.

 

“We cannot be more than we are.”  Faramir was pale, but he stood his ground.  “I despise myself for hurting you again . . . but we should not give in to this feeling between us.  For your sake as well as mine, all we can be are brothers.  We can never be anything more.”

 

“You say _should not_ . . . but you also say you long for me as I do for you!” Boromir took another pace forward, only to have it matched by Faramir’s retreat.  “What harm could there be?” he asked plaintively.  “Why can we not . . .”

 

“Father.”

 

This time, it was Boromir who recoiled, as Denethor’s presence loomed between them.  In this jealousy, in this desire, there was danger he had never considered.  What would Denethor do if he discovered the unnatural affection between his sons?

 

Yet . . . even aware of that threat, he could not simply abandon his feelings, could not carelessly throw it all aside.  For all that his realization was sudden, the love had wound itself slowly through him, until it was more than just a part of him.  It _burned_ within him, despite Faramir’s words of denial.  To not fulfill it would leave him an empty husk, hollow and lifeless.

 

His mouth was dry, but he forced the words out somehow.  “He will not know.” He advanced again, and as Faramir stepped away, he pleaded, “Can I not touch you at all? Please, little brother, let me . . .”

 

Faramir gave him a lopsided smile, and the sadness in it wrung his heart.  “Nay.  For if we were to do as we wish, to indulge in one kiss, one . . . one encounter . . . it would not stop.  You know this.  For if once, why not again?  And again, and yet again, until our desire was slaked, if it ever could be.  Then there would be a careless moment—a thoughtless word, an unguarded look—and Father would tumble to the truth.

 

“He would surely separate us, if he did not kill us outright, and would never allow us to see each other again.  And I . . . I know I could not survive that.”  He moved closer, reached out, and for one heady, breathless moment, Boromir felt sure that, despite his words, his brother would _touch_ him, would run his fingers over his cheek, would give him just a hint that intimacy he so longed for.

 

But Faramir’s hand came to rest on his forearm instead, his grip firm and brotherly through the layers of fabric. His blue eyes were intent. “I need you, brother, too much to need you more.”

 

Boromir swallowed, accepting finally that Faramir was right.  He jerked his head once in agreement, then stared down at his boots.  “I hear the truth in your words,” he said, so quietly that he could barely hear himself over the wind.  “But truth does not make this easier.”

 

“No, it does not.” Faramir released his arm, and again, slivers of pain slipped his control and into his voice.  “And I am a coward, but it is a risk I dare not take.”

 

“A coward would not have admitted his feelings at all.”

 

The tight smile that Faramir flashed him was all too familiar; it said clearly that he did not agree, and was not going to give ground any time soon.  Boromir knew well what it meant, for he’d seen it many, many times in the past.

 

Moving with a quickness that his size belied, he reached out and threaded his fingers into curling red-gold hair.  His other hand gripped Faramir’s arm.  He used Faramir’s instant of surprise to pull him close, to press his head gently against his shoulder.

 

Then he buried his nose in his brother’s hair, and let himself _imagine_ , just for a moment.

 

 _Oh, Valar, let me hold him forever . . . let me . . ._

 

He curbed those traitorous thoughts quickly, the ones that urged him to ignore the words they had traded, for words were meaningless and actions were all.  He had agreed; he would stand by that, no matter the cost.

 

But he could not stand to see his brother suffer, to see him doubt himself.

 

So he laid it all away as deeply as he could—his pain, his longing, his regrets—and said, “You are my brother, and I would never lie to you . . . and I say that you cannot be a coward, unless I am the same.”  He held Faramir closer, brief forbidden pleasure.  “For I could not live without you either,” he whispered.  “I will do nothing that would bring that to pass.”

 

And Faramir relaxed against him, the wariness that had held him aloof even in Boromir’s arms disappearing.  He felt the singing tension ease between them, and his brother’s hands crept under his cloak to clench in the fabric of his tunic.

 

They stood like that for some time, as the wind gusted around them, grabbing at their cloaks and tossing their hair.

 

Boromir was reluctant to let Faramir go, for he could not help but feel that everything would change once he did.

 

And perhaps Faramir felt the same, for it seemed that he was loath to end their embrace as well.

 

But at last he stirred, though he did not pull away.  “Father was looking for you,” he said, turning his head so his words were not muffled into Boromir’s shoulder.

 

Boromir took a breath.  “He had some plan that he wanted me to see.”

 

 _Can we go on?_ he wanted to ask, but his throat closed on the words.

 

The answer to that, however, was obvious.  _We have to, no matter what we feel._

 

Realization was slow to dawn in the face of such shocking discoveries and rejection.

 

 _I can still cherish Faramir as I wish in my heart, though I dare never show more affection than this.  But I will be content with this, for this is what I can have._

 

Not for the first time—but for the last—Boromir kissed his brother, pressing his lips to Faramir’s brow in a manner that was chaste and brotherly, a mask for his feelings.  He trailed his fingers carefully through red-gold hair, drawing out the moment as long as he could, then slowly released him.

 

 _Let that seal it_ , he thought, stepping back.  _Let it be done._   He summoned a smile to meet Faramir’s, though it felt as sickly and false upon his face as Faramir’s had seemed earlier.

 

“Come inside now, and get out of the cold.”

 

Once the door to the roof had shut behind them, time and duty captured them again—for while they had stood in the wind, they were outside the world.

 

The distance between them stretched almost unbearably as they made their way back into the hall proper.  Boromir could find no words to bridge it, and felt despair.

 

“When you and Father have finished your meeting . . . would you join me for the midday meal?” Faramir smiled at him as he spoke, and suddenly, it was as if nothing had changed.

 

 _No,_ Boromir thought, _everything has still changed.  But he has accepted what can and cannot be, and I must do the same._

 

He smiled back, and it felt almost natural.  “I shall . . . even if it means I must fetch a pack and seek you out in the depths of the library.”

 

Faramir laughed, and his heart leapt at the sound.  “The archivist would certainly have my hide if you brought food into his domain, and would likely wound you past all recovery!”  He clasped Boromir’s forearm again, still grinning, then moved past him, in the direction of the archives.

 

Watching Faramir stride away, Boromir’s smile turned sad, and he murmured, “Ah, little brother, _this_ is the deepest wound I have ever taken . . . and yet, I would not trade it for health or peace or life.”

 

From somewhere, he summoned the strength to go on.

 

***

August 15, 2005


End file.
